Kissing The Pink

The thin one was leaning over the table, the middle finger of his
bridge hand tapping nervously as he lined up for the shot. He drew the
cue back, prodded it forward a couple of times, then paused.
Teasing.

Behind him, the fat one chuckled and turned to examine the prints on
the wall between the bar and the cue rack. Dusty reproductions of
hunting scenes, Edward Hopper's Nighthawks, and that corny one of dogs
playing billiards. Terrible taste in art - except for the Hopper that
he knew was Joe's choice - but really no worse than he would have
expected.

The thin one glanced round. "Who was that chap who used to commentate,
the one with the strange--?"

"Ted Lowe," the fat one supplied without turning from the pictures.
"Whispering Ted Lowe."

"Whispering Ted Lowe! Wonderful."

Concentrating again, the thin one spoke in a hushed, gravelly
impersonation of someone Kevin vaguely recognised, even if he'd only
ever heard imitations of the voice rather than the voice itself.

"And lining up for the most important shot of the night. Just this
black to win the game!"

"Should be the pink," the fat one muttered.

Kevin heard the click of a lighter. It seemed very loud in the
stillness of the underground room.

"Pink?" The thin one frowned for a moment, then roared with laughter.
"Oh, I get you."

"More appropriate, wouldn't you say?"

The thin one reached over, plucked the black ball up and replaced it
with the pink. It tasted faintly of chalk. The fat one laughed,
breathing pungent cigar smoke which tickled Kevin's nostrils and made
him desperate to move. He felt vomit rising in his chest and writhed
involuntarily before swallowing it back down.

"Hey! Keep still." The thin one was stern again, his eyes narrowed in
concentration, his chin almost touching the cue.

Kevin held his breath. Every muscle was tense, trembling from trying so
hard not to tremble.

He heard the clean snap of the cue making contact and felt a searing
pain in his teeth as the ball was propelled out of his mouth and on to
the table, where it bounced into a path set by two cues aimed towards
the baulk corner pocket. Juddering against the cues, it teetered on the
edge and then dropped over.

The thin one shouted with delight and brandished his cue like a spear.
Behind him, the fat one grinned wryly around his cigar and gave a slow
handclap. From upstairs came a muffled pounding as Joe reacted
helplessly to the noise.

"What about him?" the fat one said.

"He can kick and scream all he bloody likes. He's not going anywhere."
He leant over and gave Kevin his best smile, the one the cameras loved.
"And neither are you."

Kevin was carefully checking his teeth with his tongue. He'd cracked
the crown on his top right incisor: three hundred pounds that he
couldn't afford - not that money was in any way a matter of concern
right now. His mouth was full of blood: swallowing it brought to mind
nosebleeds as a child, his mother soothing him as she pressed a
handkerchief against his nostrils.

"This is--" He coughed and spluttered. "This is enough."

"Oh no. I'll tell you when it's enough."

Kevin coughed again, felt his aching chest go weak in surrender. He had
given up, hadn't he? What more did they want?

The fat one strolled up and inspected him much as he had the paintings,
with a vague air of distaste. "Thought of a good one," he said.

At his suggestion, the two men roughly manoeuvred Kevin's body longways
on the table, pulling him so that his head dangled back unsupported
over the end. He tried to struggle but the thin one slapped his face
hard. Kevin closed his eyes and opened them to find the tip of the
cigar only millimetres away.

"Better if you don't resist," the fat one said.

They forced open his legs until his feet were against the centre
pockets. The pink ball was then placed on the centre spot, and the cue
ball up on the baulk line. The thin one guffawed as he saw what was
planned.

"You have an almost Biblical eye for revenge."

"The benefits of a classical education."

"I want him to see it, though. Hold his head up, will you?"

The fat one sniffed, his only sign that this was a little more
involvement than he wanted. Kevin shut his eyes again, and a moment
later felt a pair of damp chubby hands grip the sides of his head and
lift it just above the table. A physiotherapist had cradled him like
this while treating him for whiplash a few years ago. He recalled being
struck by the degree of trust needed to allow someone else to support
your head; at the time he had found it a sensual, almost erotic
experience. Now it was simply terrifying.

"Open up."

He opened his eyes and stared straight at the thin one, already
squinting as he aimed the cue.

"Full force, plenty of topspin," the fat one advised.

"Thank you Stephen Hendry." He hit the ball with full force and almost
total accuracy. The cue ball smashed into the pink, which in turn was
driven deep into Kevin's groin, forcing its way below his testicles and
lodging beneath his buttocks. Kevin screamed. The pain was like an
atomic explosion: he had the blast; now he had to wait for the slow
mushrooming agony, the stomach-sickening fallout.

"Damn thing's nearly up his arse," the fat one smirked.

The thin one shrugged. "He's made his choice."

Upstairs, Joe was thumping on the door again. They could hear him
bellowing, his voice breaking with emotion and fatigue.

The thin one sighed. "I suppose I should..."

"I'll go. Better coming from me."

"All right." For the first time there was sweat on the thin one's
forehead and upper lip. He looked tired himself, strained, as if
possibly he had entered a race which was turning out to be tougher than
he'd expected.

The fat one paused at the door. "You don't want me to hurt him?"

"Of course not. Just calm him down."

The fat one shrugged amiably. It was of no matter to him, just
something he thought he should offer. It was what he was there for,
after all: advice, guidance, support. And the dirty work. He slipped
out of the room, trailing cigar smoke.

"Arsehole," the thin one hissed at the closing door. He shook his head,
rubbed his tired eyes until they stung, and released a long, thoughtful
sigh. He became aware of his prisoner, making tiny whimpering noises
like a broken animal. Roadkill.

He pulled Kevin's arm away from his face and leant closer, waiting for
Kevin to meet his gaze.

"Do you know who I am?"

Kevin frowned, suspecting another trick, another reason for
punishment.

"Well?"

"James Chatterton."

"Yes, but who am I now?"

"I'm sorry, I don't... I don't understand."

Chatterton leant closer, his face only a few inches from Kevin's. "I'm
the man who can destroy you. Your career. Your life. I could have you
killed. Like that." He clicked his fingers and Kevin winced. "Do you
agree?"

"Yes."

"Good. And best of all, no one would ever believe this happened. No one
would believe I did this. Is that correct?"

Kevin tried to shrink away from the face above him, but the hard slate
of the table gave him no opportunity. He hated to speak when every word
was squeezed by pain and fear into a girlish squeak.

"Yes."

"Yes. So even if you could tell someone, which you can't, it would be
meaningless. And as for the police." Chatterton snorted.

"I won't. I said that."

"You've had dealings with them before?"

"No."

"Liar. In my experience the police hate your type. Loathe the lot of
you. I've never met a plod yet that wasn't a right wing, racist,
chauvinistic homophobe at heart. Some of them hide it better, that's
all. Once you're in that cell they can do what they like to you. Make
this seem like a fucking holiday camp by comparison." He stood and
laughed so abruptly that Kevin tensed, believing the fat one - Miles -
was about to attack.

"Holiday camp," James said again. "That's where you go, isn't
it?"

"What?"

"For a camp holiday." And he laughed again, turning away as if at a
dinner party, shaking his head in rueful admiration of his own sense of
humour. "Oh, I like that. I must tell Miles."

The sudden change of mood was, if anything, more frightening. Kevin
realised that Chatterton was capable of almost anything. It seemed
ludicrous, but not impossible, that he really might die here, on a
snooker table in a basement room in Highgate. He made a huge effort to
sit up, and was not prevented from doing so. Chatterton was at the bar,
his back to the table. If he could move quickly enough...

He swung his legs over the side of the table, trying not to put too
much weight on his hideously swollen hands. The cues were by the table;
he could perhaps use one as a weapon. His heart hammering, blood still
trickling down his throat, he began to ease himself off the
table.

Chatterton turned, holding a tumbler of scotch, and regarded him with
modest admiration but no surprise. The shock caused Kevin to slip, and
his aching legs were unable to support his weight. He collapsed to the
floor.

"Table getting a bit uncomfortable for you?" Chatterton chuckled, and
drained the scotch in one gulp.

The door opened and Miles appeared, a smug little grin on his face.
Kevin realised that there had been no sound from the room
upstairs.

"What have you done to him?"

"He's fine." The reply was directed at Chatterton, who looked almost as
concerned. "He's calm now."

Chatterton opened his mouth, but Miles deflected further interrogation
by gesturing at Kevin. "Having a rest, is he?"

"I think he's convinced."

Miles checked his watch, drawing Chatterton closer as he lowered his
voice. "You've got about twenty minutes. Traffic shouldn't be a problem
by now."

Chatterton gaped at him for a moment, unable to comprehend that another
world existed beyond this house, this room. "Christ." He ran a hand
through his hair, then shook his head, not to clear his muddled
thoughts as much as to shake the errant hair back into place. "When do
they need me?" he asked.

"Ten."

"Right." A long, heavy sigh. "Better crack on, then." And he forced a
grin, the sort Miles was accustomed to seeing during long meetings,
after hours of protracted negotiations: a grin that said, they won't
grind me down. "Time for Act Two."

As he turned away Miles cleared his throat. This time he spoke so
softly that Chatterton had to lean until their heads were almost
touching.

"I've been considering what our, ah, 'terminal options' would
be."

"I'm not intending to go that far, for God's sake."

"Perhaps not," Miles hissed. "But we all succumb to excitement
sometimes, heat of passion and all that. It happens."

"It won't."

"But if it does," he went on smoothly, "it can be tidied up. I have a
friendly pharmacist, if need be. And a GP who could be persuaded to
assist with the certificate. Worst case, we can have the body removed
completely. Probably never be found, and if it is it won't be
identifiable."

Chatterton turned away, waving his hand in displeasure. It was time for
Miles to step back into the shadows, obedient servant that he
was.

Kevin was struggling to rise, his hands gripping the rails of the
table. Chatterton grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet, then
dragged him over to a leather wing chair.

"Sit there, and keep your hands on your lap. I don't want you dripping
blood everywhere."

Kevin fell gratefully into the chair. Nothing was said while Miles made
himself a scotch and refilled Chatterton's glass.

"I think he's ready to explain now," Chatterton said at last.

Kevin looked up, frowning. "Explain?"

"Why you did it? How it happened?"

"You want to know?" Kevin's confidence was returning: very slowly, very
slightly, but it was coming. He even managed the hint of a smile.
"Don't tell me you want to understand?"

Chatterton's knuckles whitened around the cue. He thumped the butt on
the floor twice, and Kevin's smile fled.

"I fell in love with him. Just like people do. You don't intend it, you
don't look for it necessarily. Sometimes it just happens."

He paused, judging their reactions, and felt it was safe to
continue.

"Joe has a real flair for drama. He stood out immediately, a very
intelligent bo--young man, very lively. I saw he had talent, and I knew
that with him, unlike a lot of them, the work I did wouldn't go to
waste."

"Did you know who he was?"

"Your son? Yes, I knew. But nothing was intended, so... it was
irrelevant. Even though I knew he was gay."

"You knew? What do you mean, you knew?"

"I could tell."

"Bullshit."

Kevin frowned, unsure what was being questioned. "You don't think Joe
is gay?"

The cue thumped on the floor, almost of its own volition. Kevin thought
better of laughing and coughed instead.

"Go on."

"Well, some of the group went to the pub afterwards. Before long there
were only three or four, and then, suddenly, just the two of us. We
realised we shared a lot of similar views. We became friends."

Miles snorted.

"Did you come back here?" Chatterton demanded.

"Not then. Not for a while, in fact. And then Joe suggested a game of
snooker. I'd never played before, didn't really know anything about it.
I think the World Championship was on television at the time. Joe
convinced me to watch a game. We had a pizza, a few beers."

"And admired the arses." Miles sneered.

Kevin regarded him directly. "Yes. As it happens. A lot of young men in
smart suits, bending and stretching over the table. No wonder it's so
popular with women."

Miles sniffed and retreated to the bar.

"And when did it happen? When did you...?"

Chatterton gulped. Kevin drew strength from that, but was careful to
conceal it. Which phrase would most antagonise? he wondered. Make love?
Have sex?

"That day," he said, using neither. Not adding that they did it down
here, in Daddy's beloved snooker room, and for a time on Daddy's
beloved snooker table.

Chatterton shook his head, grinding his teeth together as he fought to
cope with the image of his son copulating with another man. Kevin was
prepared for him to react violently, but somehow he no longer felt
afraid. He had taken the punishment and survived. He remembered that
line: whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and nodded to
himself. That was it.

Emboldened by this thought, he decided it was time Chatterton was put
right on a few things. "You know how much you're hurting him, don't
you?"

"Who?" Chatterton was rubbing his eyes. He looked very tired, very
old.

"Joe. You're causing him terrible pain."

For a moment Chatterton seemed to shrink, cowed by what he knew to be
the truth. But then the arrogance returned, his shoulders broadened,
the chin came up. "Don't be stupid. I'm protecting him."

"Locking him in his room. Doing this to me."

"It's because I love him that I'm doing this." An index finger jabbed
out. "He's just a kid. He's confused about his sexuality."

"So what do you feel is the appropriate age of consent for
homosexuals?" Now Kevin was able to manage a sneer. "Your views are on
record, aren't they?"

"There were other considerations there," Chatterton snapped. "I wanted
something in return."

"It was the right thing to do at the time," Miles added silkily.

"Or was it to please your poodle there?"

Miles stepped forward, raising his glass as if to shove it in Kevin's
face, but Chatterton restrained him.

"My liberal views have come back to haunt me, put it that way," he
said.

"No. This is what will come back to haunt you. The day your son stopped
loving you."

Chatterton swallowed on his reply, turning slightly so that Miles
couldn't see the tears in his eyes.

I've got through to him, Kevin thought. I've reached him.

The next question caught him off guard. "Your father, does he know
about you?"

"Of course. I told him when I was fifteen."

"And how did he react?"

"Upset. Shocked. He thought I was too young to be certain." He saw
Chatterton smirk. "I told him I'd been certain since I was five. And he
said, in that case there's nothing more to discuss. He's loved me and
supported me ever since. I've been very lucky."

"Until now." Miles gave an evil chuckle.

Kevin shrugged. "All right. Until now."

He looked at Chatterton and saw tears rolling down his cheeks, all the
colour gone from his face, his hands making and unmaking fists so tight
there were spots of blood on his palm. This was the moment that Kevin
should have chosen a conciliatory approach, but the reckless, the
dangerous side of his character could never resist throwing that extra
unnecessary barb.

"Joe's gay, and there's nothing you can do about it. If it's not me
it'll be someone else. He'll simply leave you and he won't come back.
Do you really want to lose your only child over something as stupid as
who he chooses to fuck?"

For a second no one spoke, no one moved. Kevin shut his mouth,
realising he had gone too far.

And then the world went black. His ears sang with pain as if someone
had clapped cymbals against them. He opened his eyes to find Chatterton
was strangling him. His mouth opened but the only sound he made was a
desperate gargling. He tried batting Chatterton's head, pulling at his
arms, but the pressure didn't let up. He had goaded the man into a
blind, insane rage. Miles had slipped into the background, clearly not
planning to intervene.

The room started to rotate, increasing speed like a carousel warming
up. Tiny sparks of light exploded in his eyes. He felt his bladder
release, and the sudden acrid smell of urine shamed him and told him he
was going to die.

There was a thump from upstairs, not as loud as before, or perhaps he
had imagined it. Help me, Joe, he thought. Help me, please. Don't let
me die.

Another thump. Whether Chatterton heard it was unclear, but suddenly
the hands fell away. Chatterton dropped to his knees and let out a sob.
Kevin leaned over the side of the chair and retched.

"I can't. I can't do it."

"You can do it," said Miles softly, placing a hand on Chatterton's
shoulder.

Chatterton jumped to his feet, not bothering to disguise his
revulsion.

"Stay here. I want to talk to Joe."

"Are you sure that's wise? It's nearly finished down here."

"I'll say when it's finished," Chatterton snarled, and pushed past
Miles.

Kevin was gently feeling his throat, wondering how he would cope with a
ring of bruises decorating his neck. He was going to look very strange
wearing a scarf in June. If he got out alive, that is.

Miles' disappointment was evident in his expression, but there was
something else as well, something sinister and terrible. He reached out
and brushed a chubby forefinger against Kevin's neck.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he said, caressing the damaged skin. "Better
still with amyl nitrate."

Kevin's hands dropped back to his lap. His mouth was open in
astonishment, quickly turning to anger at his own stupidity. Of course
he had been distracted, he'd had his life at risk, but why hadn't he
seen it? Chatterton had no idea, he was sure of that. What a bargaining
tool this could have been.

"You've taken part in this, and you're gay?"

"Not all the time."

"You evil, hypocritical bastard."

"I've been called worse. As it happens I only give, I don't receive.
I'm careful, I'm discreet. And I was against lowering the age of
consent." He laughed. "If I have to go to the Philippines, why
shouldn't you?"

Kevin groaned, his eyes rolling, and fell back in a faint. As Miles
took a step forward Kevin brought his right foot up neatly into Miles'
groin. The fat man doubled over and then dropped to his knees.

Kevin tried to rise from the chair but slipped on to the floor. He felt
Miles grabbing for his leg and kicked out again. He knew he didn't have
long. If he could at least get to a phone, if not out of the house
itself. He had no choice but to involve the police now: it had gone too
far. He would have to live with the consequences, but at least he would
live--

Suddenly there was an unearthly scream from upstairs. "Help me!"
Chatterton roared. "Help me cut him down!"

On the floor, Miles groaned and got to his feet. Ignoring Kevin, he
walked out of the room, swearing softly to himself.

Another scream for help from upstairs, Chatterton's voice growing
hoarse and weak. And then a long, dipping cry: "Noooooo."

Kevin shuddered, turned back to the snooker table and crawled beneath
it. There he sat with his hands over his ears, his elbows pressed
against his stomach. As a child he had taken refuge like this when he
was frightened or upset, rocking gently back and forth. It had soothed
him then and it would soothe him now. As long as he was patient. As
long as he stayed where he was.

He was safe under the table. They couldn't hurt him now.

*

From BBC Television news:

"Reports are coming in of an incident at the North London home of the
junior Home Office Minister, James Chatterton. Our political
correspondent, Fiona Walker, joins us from the scene. What can you tell
us, Fiona?"
"Not a great deal at this stage, I'm afraid. It seems the police were
called to the house at approximately 9.30 this evening - that's about
forty minutes ago. They're still at the scene, and as you can see from
the activity behind me, the property has effectively been sealed
off."
"What about Mr Chatterton himself? Is he believed to be
present?"
"The police won't confirm or deny that. They've said only that two men
have been taken away for questioning, and further details will be
released in due course."
"Fiona, I see there's an ambulance amongst the emergency vehicles. Do
we know why that was called?"
"We don't. But I've been told that medical personnel have been inside
the building for, ah, about fifteen or twenty minutes now."
"Is it too early to comment on what affect this incident could
possibly have on Mr Chatterton's career?"
"I think until we know more about exactly what's happened, and who is
involved, it would be very difficult to speculate. However, James
Chatterton was regarded very much as a rising star, a very capable
Junior Minister and certainly someone who is talked about as a future
member of the Cabinet. Whether that is still the case after tonight,
well, that remains to be seen."
"Fiona, thank you very much for now."
"Thank you."